A Drinking Game
by freudian fuckup
Summary: Remus is drunk. Very drunk. And Sirius is a git who does not know when to let a thing go. Fluff, drunk Marauders.


**I wrote this a long time ago, but revised it recently and decided to post it here. There are a few things about it of which I'm not fond, like the Peter-banishment, but this was when I was very new to Marauder-fic, and wasn't quite sure what I was doing. Forgive me.**

* * *

"_Moooooooony_. Dear, sweet, _beautiful_ Moony. Wakey, wakey my love! Me thinks it is time for another round!"

The room sways dangerously as Remus tries to lift his head, and he wonders whether he'll be able to sit up at all. Before he's had time to decide, Sirius has him under the arms and is hauling him upright on someone's bed. Probably James', not that Remus particularly cares.

When the dormitory stops threatening to rock off its axis, Remus finds himself seated between Sirius' outstretched legs, leaning back against a rather sweaty, bare chest. A pair of long, angular arms wind round Remus' narrow waist, keeping him from slipping back onto the bed, into blissful unconsciousness.

James flashes a mischievous grin from the foot of the bed and begins rummaging through a trunk on the floor.

"Lookie what I've got— the infamous _enhanced_ butterbeer our _dear_ Wormtail brewed in third year," James declares triumphantly, brandishing a half-empty bottle wildly. He neglects to mention that Peter did not so much "brew" it as "nearly blow up the dungeons with" it.

"I thought we polished that off _months_ ago, the night we sneaked into the Ravenclaws' dormitory. You know, the time you… you know… with that Prefect with the _enormous—_" Sirius lets go of Remus long enough to make a suitable approximation of size, but James cuts him off.

"I _know_ the one you mean. And no, I tucked away the last of it while you were off doing Merlin knows what with that scrawny blonde," James replies, affecting an air of offended modesty.

"She was not scrawny! And anyway, Prongs, _you've_ been holding out on us!"

"I have not! I've been _saving_ it for a special occasion."

"So, what's the occasion then?"

"Tonight," says James with an air of solemnity, "We drink in celebration. In honor of my progress with the elusive, maddening, wondrous creature known to us mere mortals as Lily Evans."

"But she punched you in the mouth!" Sirius cries, hitching Remus up where he had slipped downward, making Remus' head throb viciously.

"Ah, _subtext_, Master Black. She let me get a hand half-way up her blouse before her fair and virtuous nature required she spurn my affections."

"By knocking your incisor loose?"

"Oh Padfoot, you've no sense of subtlety. That's why _you_ haven't got a girlfriend."

"_I_ haven't got a girlfriend because it might _inhibit_ my love life. Besides, how ever would I choose amongst all the lovely young ladies vying for the position?"

Sirius then does a rather graphic demonstration of said love life, using Remus as a stand-in female. Remus spares a moment to consider why he is, so often, the makeshift girl of the group, but before he can reach a suitable conclusion, his stomach gives a nauseating lurch.

"Ugghgerroffame!"

"Oh, look who's joined the conversation. Welcome back, Moony. Had a good rest?" James asks pleasantly.

"Yeah, until you maniacs saw fit to wake me the hell up. Shite, what time is it anyhow?" Remus asks irritably.

"Just gone half two. You went down early. Been out cold since midnight," Sirius supplies. He then adds in a low whisper, "You know you're quite sexy when you're annoyed with me."

"Then I must be damn near irresistible right about now," Remus snipes, firmly ignoring the (not entirely unpleasant) tingle in his stomach.

And at that, James roars with laughter, toppling off the bed.

Remus, never much of a drinker, has only a vague recollection of the evening's shenanigans. There were a few odd Hufflepuffs involved, and an ungodly amount of liquor being consumed, mostly, it seems, by Remus personally.

"So are you trying to force us to sober up, Remus? Is that was this is about? 'Cause you might have just said so, no need to drink it all yourself. Noble though it was," James says in all seriousness.

"Sober?" Sirius repeats, looking gravely offended, as though James had insulted his mother (or someone he actually cared for.) Remus can _feel_ them exchange a look.

"_Never!_" they shout in practiced unison, toasting with the butterbeer bottle and whatever glass Sirius finds on the bedside table. It always was one of their favorite battle-cries.

Remus' stomach makes its objections known once again, though not quite as violently, and he sits up, shoving at Sirius' arm. Sirius seizes his waist with renewed vigor, and nips at Remus' earlobe.

"Aggh, Moony, don't deny me! You maddening little harlot, you can't fight the passion we share!" says Sirius, licking a line along the side of Remus' face.

"Ugh, Padfoot, that is truly sickening!" Remus says, trying very hard to mean it, as he extracts himself from Sirius' embrace.

Once again, the room does its best imitation of a fairground ride, but Remus clings to the blankets and crawls to the other end of the bed. Gracelessly, he slumps against the footboard and silently prays for death.

"Right. Time for a game I think," says James authoritatively.

"A drinking game?" Sirius asks.

"Is there another sort?" says James with a grin.

"What'll it be, my loves?"

"No. No, absolutely not. I'm out," Remus pleads.

"Nonsense! Can't play with just two," Sirius says matter-of-factly.

"Where's Peter then? Make him play," whines Remus.

"No good, Wormtail found himself some skirt and hasn't been spotted in, what?"

"An hour," James supplies, beaming like a proud parent.

"Yes, an hour," Sirius says. "A Hufflepuff, I believe. Fourth year, by the look of her. It's just the three of us tonight, Moony."

"Wrong. I'm not playing. I'm right smashed already and I have… essays to write tomorrow," he finishes lamely.

"Nonsense, we have all the same classes, you tosser! Now, a game," says James with a sense of finality, and Remus gives up.

"How about backwards 'I Never'?" Sirius suggests eagerly. Whether eager to begin playing or continue drinking, Remus can't tell.

"Brilliant! Wait, backwards?" James asks looking confused, his glasses slipping down his nose as he sits cross-legged in the floor.

"Right, well, normally, you win if you _haven't_ done the thing being named, but then _that_ rewards dishonesty. _Backwards_, you have to drink if you _haven't_ done it. So really, 'I Have' would be a better name, I suppose. This way, the more you spill, the less pissed you've got to get," says Sirius, as though this were the simplest and most rational thing in the world.

"Excellent, who's first?"

"Now, wait a minute!" Remus cries indignantly. "That puts me at a disadvantage! And I'm twice as drunk and half as much a deviant as the two of you."

"Well, so long as you're honest, you shouldn't fair _too_ poorly," James says, quirking an eyebrow.

Remus opens his mouth to object but Sirius intercedes. "_Relax_ Moony, we'll be merciful. Besides, if we make you pass out, where's the fun in that?"

"How's that not fun?" says James, looking incredulous. James and Peter are only recently speaking after James left Wormtail passed out, half-naked and covered in makeup outside the Slytherin common room. James claimed he'd been merciful by leaving Peter's wand with him, but Peter didn't quite see it that way.

"Oh come on Prongs, we mustn't abuse poor little Moony, he's so dreadfully _sensitive_ this time of the month—" and James only just catches Remus' ankle before Remus can tackle Sirius.

"If you two are _quite _finished."

And so they begin. James climbs awkwardly back onto the bed and transfigures them each a glass. In his inebriation, James' own glass remains sock-shaped, but he doesn't seem to mind. He then pours a small portion in each glass, and refills Sirius' when he immediately swallowed his. "Sorry, mate. Just warming up."

Remus, still relying heavily on the footboard to stay upright, swirls his glass cautiously, as though it might bite, and tries to pay attention.

"Alright, I'll start," Sirius declares, gesturing with his newly refilled glass. "I have…" he pauses, pretending to think. "I have tossed off…" Remus relaxed a little, willing to admit as much to keep from drinking. "… During lessons."

James laughs but doesn't drink. Remus sighs heavily and swallows his portion.

* * *

"Sirrrruss, thisissn' _fair_," Remus slurs before swallowing his umpteenth shot of butterbeer.

"He's not wrong, Padfoot. You've only had to drink once," James says, making a concerted effort not to slur.

"_I'm_ being unfair? _He's_ the one that used 'I have been bitten by a werewolf'! How's that for fair? Ruined my perfect streak!" Sirius cries, feigning outrage.

To be clear, Sirius has had quite a lot to drink himself, though most all of it voluntary, but is not nearly as pissed as the other two. Still, Remus feels enormously resentful in Sirius' general direction, or would, were it not for all the alcohol keeping him from feeling much of anything.

"Alright, I'll go easy for a bit. But _just_ until you two nancies sober up. Then I'm starting on illegal substances and acts of voyeurism. Hmmm, let me see... I have… had a handjob."

James and Sirius exchange a knowing look, without drinking, then both turn to Remus, who is staring very intently at a stain on the bedsheet.

"Well, Moony, have you or haven't you?"

"I… I…"

"He _has_!" James exclaims in delighted shock. He looks rather like a small child who's just found that Santa Claus _is _in fact real.

"He has not, have you Moony? He just doesn't wanna drink."

"How'd you know?" Remus asks quietly, raising an eyebrow in defiance.

"I _know_ because if you had, we'd all have heard about it for a bloody _week_. I challenge your claim," Sirius finishes, looking as haughty as one possibly can without a shirt.

"Oh ho, that's a very _serious_ accusation, _Sirius_," James says, barely suppressing a giggle at his own pun, which had got old before the end of their first year. "How do you plan to go about proving it?"

"Simple, I want details. Nothing _lewd_— unless of course, you feel like it— just enough that we know you aren't having us on."

"Sod off, tha's not par'of the rules."

"What rules? Prongs, do you remember agreeing to any rules?"

"Agree to _rules_? Why Padfoot, you insult me!"

"Exactly, now tell. Or drink."

For a long, tempting moment, Remus considers swallowing the shot, truth (and rules) be damned, but the thought of ingesting one more drop of anything remotely resembling alcohol makes Remus' stomach cry out in protest. And besides, Remus finds it incredibly irritating that the idea of him getting off with anyone other than himself is so bloody unfathomable as to warrant investigation. It is a matter of _pride_, damn it.

"What do you want to know?"

"Ooohh ho ho," James howls. Sirius doesn't look even faintly amused. Instead, he looks Remus dead in the eye and leans in.

"Where?"

"Where?" Remus repeats, fighting the urge to laugh. "In my pants, you arse."

James laughs hysterically and falls off the bed once more. This time, he lies on his back, giggling at the ceiling, which is, apparently, terribly funny.

"No, where were _you_, you drunken prat," Sirius replies, his eyes narrowing.

"Oh... Prefects' bathroom."

"Mhm, what a cliché. And when?"

Remus grimaces involuntarily.

"Just before Christmas—are you finished interrogating me?" Remus says, now more offended than intoxicated.

"Just one more. _Who_?"

At that, James sits up like a shot, clearly interested, only to wobble and fall back to the floor. Neither Remus nor Sirius bother to check on him, but continued to stare one another down.

"No."

"Drink."

"No."

"Then tell."

"So you lot can have a go at them whenever you feel like it?"

"So I can congratulate her on taking your precious flower!"

"Git."

"Tramp."

"Tha's rich, coming from you!"

But Sirius is staring at a spot on the wall over Remus' shoulder and clearly not listening.

"Moony?"

"Yeah?" Remus replies, trying to make sure James is still breathing.

"Doesn't the Prefects' bath have loads of enchantments on it?"

"Yeah, ah'course. Otherwise all sortsa riff raff could wander in," says acidly, curious as to where Sirius' deranged mind is going.

"And isn't one of those spells to keep members of the opposite sex from getting in?"

"Naturally." Remus says, and then he catches on.

"So how is it you got off in there?"

"I, I—I just—"

"Moony, Moony, Moony. _Either_ you have disgraced the ancient rules of backward 'I Never'—"

"I thought there _were_ no rules—"

"By lying," Sirius continues, without acknowledging the interruption. "_Or_, you found a way around the enchantments, and have therefore been concealing from your fellow Marauders perhaps the most prime shagging grounds in all of Hogwarts."

"I haven't!" Remus shrieks without thinking.

"So drink!"

"But… but—"

Sirius sits up very suddenly, his glass nearly sliding off the bed to join James' now snoring figure.

"You aren't lying, are you?" Sirius says quietly, looking very grave indeed.

"I… I—I'm not drinking."

"Who was it, Moony? Come on, you can tell," he says trying to sound reassuring, except that it comes off far to eager.

"I… I'd better not. Listen, gimme the bottle, I'll drink."

"No, too late for that. Let's hear it Moony, who's the lucky bloke?"

"Shut up, it's none of your concern."

"So it was a boy?"

"Yes—No, I mean… Bugger. I told you I didn't want to play your damned game!" Remus shouts, and means it.

"Calm down! It's not _that_ big a fuss. Look, if you're embarrassed—"

"It was Richards, alright? Christ, Sirius, I'm for bed," Remus mutters, stumbling across the dormitory in the general direction of his own bed. Somewhere around the middle of the room, Remus' feet catch on a bit of floor that jumps in his way, and he wobbles dangerously, before collapsing to the ground in a tired, boy-shaped heap. A moment later, Remus senses someone looking at him, and is annoyingly unsurprised to see Sirius sitting in the floor beside him.

"You know, me and Prongs got off once," Sirius says simply, like he is reciting potions ingredients or giving the time.

"Wha—You did what? Oh, shite, I don't want to hear this," Remus moans, clutching his head.

"It's hardly a Ministry affair. Third year. Always thought you knew."

"I _did_."

"Then why the hell'd you never mention it?"

"Because, it wasn't my place and…"

"And what?"

"And I don't particularly like thinking about it."

Sirius snorts. "Bit late to be cringing over a bit of spontaneous homosexuality, isn't it Remus?"

"Tha's not what I meant!" Remus shoots back, wishing very hard that the floor might swallow him whole. He's envisioned this conversation about a million times over the past few years, but not once in his brain had he been half as drunk, or laying on a dirty floor for that matter. But Sirius has absolutely no sense of when he is making someone uncomfortable, or else he does and doesn't care, so he keeps on.

"So what _did _you mean, Moony?" Sirius says, looking at the Remus with the same intense concentration he gives a particularly difficult bit of homework, or a particularly resistant (read: sober) bird.

Remus throws an arm across his eyes and sighs. There is absolutely no way he is going to get out of this with his dignity, he can just _tell_.

"You _know_ what I mean, Padfoot. Could I please go to bed now?"

"Who's stopping you? And no, I don't know what you bloody well mean," Sirius says, propping himself on an elbow about an inch from Remus' concealed face.

"I don't mean anything, alright? You and Prongs are just lovely. You're both obnoxious and irresponsible and generally drunk and imperturbable and charming and beautiful—"

But before Remus can go on, there are lips pressed over his lips—over his bottom lip, to be specific—and he wonders whether he has passed out again or is hallucinating. Before he makes up his mind, Sirius pulls away, and Remus can feel the cool tingle of saliva and night air against his skin.

"Why'd you do that?" he asks, almost panic stricken.

"You were rambling. Had to stop you before you embarrassed yourself."

Remus laughs a hollow, painful laugh, wrenched from the bottom of his lungs, as though it's been hiding there, building and fermenting, for five long years.

"If you'd any concern for my wellbeing, you would have cut me off after that third drink," Remus mutters.

"But what if I _like_ you smashed?"

"What if you do?" Remus replies, not knowing what he means by it, but saying it because it seems like the thing to do.

Sirius seems to know exactly what he means though, and, for a second time, Remus finds himself being kissed. His lips are almost _rough_ against Remus' soft ones. Everything about him is rough compared to Remus. Rough hands in his coppery hair, rough palms against his neck and face, pulling him in, devouring him, as though making sure Remus can not forget what he is doing—what _they_ are doing.

Remus has been kissed before. Once, their second year, by a rather spindly Ravenclaw who, Remus suspects, only liked him because he was clever at charms and she was dreadful. Again, fourth year, by a tall, athletic Gryffindor who was probably about to graduate, and who, Remus always suspected, had been bribed by Sirius or James because they felt he really needed to get laid. He hadn't kissed Richards, actually. He barely even spoke to him. All they'd shared was fear and embarrassment and hot, fumbling contact.

But kissing Sirius—being kissed _by_ Sirius (because, Remus decides, it is impossible _to_ kiss him)—is nothing like the others. In fact, it is nothing like anything Remus can remember in all his life.

As he tries to lift his arms, to grab hold of Sirius in return, Remus realises he is far and away the drunkest he's ever been. His arms give a slight twitch, but refuse to cooperate. Before he can make another go of it, Sirius pulls away.

For an embarrassingly long while, Remus doesn't open his eyes. Instead, he lies very still, as though afraid that when he opens them he'll find himself still laid out on James' bed, having had a very vivid dream. Finally, a slight chuckle makes Remus look.

"What's funny?"

"You, you drunken nancy."

"M' not thah drunk."

"You are! You can't even bloody see straight," Sirius says, laughing again.

"Stop laughing at me!" Remus yells, failing to see anything remotely amusing about _any_ of this. But then, Sirius has always had a rather perverse sense of humor.

"Alright, alright. No need to get your knickers in a twist."

And then Sirius leans back in, and Remus thinks they are going to kiss again, but Sirius instead wraps his arms around Remus' chest and hauls him upright. Once in a sitting position, Sirius lifts Remus up fully and carries him to his bed.

"Cut it out!"

"Oh, think you can manage?" says Sirius, with an amused look.

"I'm not a _girl_, I don't need to be carried."

"Ah, but you do, my fairest damsel! And I, your brave and stunningly handsome knight, shall escort you to your bed so that you may slumber 'til thine faculties are thusly restored."

"Merlin, that was terrible. Awful grammar, full of anacronyzzmahs. Anacronysmsaas. Anacro—fuck," says Remus, and he gives up.

"Leave it to Moony to correct my grammar when he's too pissed to stand," Sirius says to no one in particular.

"Shut up," Remus says, though not irritably.

"There you are," Sirius says, dropping Remus awkwardly onto the bed, without turning back the cover.

"But Paaaadddfoot, I'm cold," Remus whines, wholeheartedly expecting Sirius to tell him to heartily bugger off. This very expectation is why Remus nearly rolls off the bed when he feels something warm against his back.

"Easy, Moony! Fall and smash your pretty little face. And what a shame that'd be," says Sirius, looping an arm around Remus' narrow waist and pulling him close.

"…Padfoot?"

"You're drunk. Shut up."

"Yeah."

"Go to sleep."

"Will you… Are you gonna stay?" Remus asks, realising how completely pathetic this sounds and not giving half a toss.

"Of course. What kind of knight do you take me for?"

And Remus knows no more until morning, when he will awake to a violent headache, a fuzzy mouth, and a tangle of warm limbs and lips.


End file.
